“There’s a comfort in knowing,” says Suzy Elghanayan, a mother whose young son died earlier this year of a seizure, “that we’re all in the same place that we never wanted to be.”
CORNVILLE, Ariz. Strips of fabric rain like multicolored tickertape from a tree, remnants of a child s favorite shirt or sock or pillowcase. Little medallions stamped with names of the dead twinkle in the breeze. In a grotto, the brokenhearted have clipped prayer cards to branches, left objects including a baseball and a toy truck, and painted dozens of stones memorializing someone gone too soon.